


Die upon a kiss

by Hexes



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabble, Emotionally constipated characters, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 02:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13021485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: In the midst of yet another rooftop argument Matt loses his temper and slaps Frank. So, of course they don't resolve anything.Un-beta'd





	Die upon a kiss

    Here they are. Another damn night, another useless fight. Stalking around each other like caged animals, hissing and spitting and snarling and achieving **nothing**.

    As usual.

    Matt's blood is singing, rushing, roaring in his head like a wildfire. It drowns out the city, the traffic, the jets overhead, his rationality, his self-control. Swept away like writing on the beach by the inexorable pull of the tide.

    Drowning.

    Everything drowning.

    Except for the war-drum beat of Frank's heart.

    Each slick, wet, shuddering, throb of atria and ventricle firing across his senses like a volley of 155 mm Howitzers. Always this heartbeat, stentorian and overpowering, always, always, always, pulsing on the edge of his perception.

    Matt can't even hear what Frank is saying any longer. He's too angry, Frank's voice is too rough, dry, tumbling, thundering, crashing through the oily air like a rock slide. The smell of his sweat so intense it feels like being punched, leaving Matt's eyes stinging, his mouth fallen open to catch some small reprieve only to drown, drown, drown in the scent-taste-feel  _assault_  of Frank's presence.

    Frank ventures too close, his breath rushing like a furious bull, savagery and direction and purpose blowing like an industrial bellows. He breathes deep, drawing in for another attack. The pull of his breath, dragging out like a riptide, riving air along Matt's neck like a butcher's cleaver, and Matt can't stand it any longer, can't resist, can't control, doesn't want to…

    The crack of his palm against the carven granite curve of Frank's cheek cleaves the night like a peel of thunder.

    Frank gasps, jerking back, his hand leaping to the searing brand left across his face.  

    His heart stops. His breath stills. And in one moment the universe tilts on its axis, equilibrium ceasing to exist as reality rewrites itself for just a fraction of a second: This is what the world would sound like without the bone-aching boom of Frank's heartbeat haunting Matt at every turn, in every courtroom, down in the pitch-black tar sands depths of each lonely night.

    Matt gasps and the spell is broken; air clawing its way through his throat with furious vengeance as the electrifying throb of Frank's heartbeat convulses back to life, sizzling its way through the cloying New York night to light up Matt's neurons like thermite.

    The kiss feels like ascension and damnation rolled into slender, plump lips, the slightest rasp of dry skin hidden beneath lanolin and petrolatum. It feels like a kusari gama sunk into the meat of his shoulder, a thought away from his subclavian artery, pulling him forward like a bloodied doll on garrote. Pulling Matt into the eye of the hurricane that is Frank Castle. Here in the calm of the storm, the pulsating thunder of Frank's heartbeat glides over his body like cool, still water, soothing and invigorating at once. The scent-taste-feel of Frank's sweat washes over him, powerful, yet tempered by the shoal of Frank's arms wending their way around his waist, one massive molten lava hot hand sitting just above the curve of his ass, the other cradling his shoulder blade gently.  

    Matt pulls back, drunk on the cannonade of pheromones exploding over his olfactory. His knees feel weak, and begin to fold beneath him, collapsing to the rooftop as Frank slides down with him, arms still wrapped around him. They kneel together, foreheads bowed against one another's and breathe in the profundity.

    “We should talk,” the Devil rasps, resting both of his hands on the nip of Frank's waist.

    “Thought that's what we were doin’,” the Punisher responds placidly. Matt hums a non-committal response.

    They pitch to the side, laying in each other's arms beneath the pallid New York sky.

    Silence reigns.

**Author's Note:**

> Ever get those plot bunnies that leap into your head and out of your hands fully formed at fucking midnight? Why tf can't they turn up at noon? Anyway, here y'all go.  
> I was watching Punisher earlier and Frank's drunken camaraderie with Micro made me think that maybe he's a little more bi in this canon. Now if only he weren't such a moody snot... 
> 
> Comment plox? 
> 
> I just reread this and realized that there's no blasphemy, and I think I feel faint. I need to lie down...
> 
> Peace, y'all.


End file.
